


Luck of the Draw

by masquerave



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales - Fandom, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Platonic (for now)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masquerave/pseuds/masquerave
Summary: A joker, a prince of bandits, a duke of dogs. A count, a steadfast knight, a veteran commander. What do they have in common? If nothing else, a shared interested in a card game, a wager, and - though they would deny it - some company.
Relationships: Gascon Brossard/Reynard Odo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	Luck of the Draw

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [[翻译]幸运签](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22348657) by [nattraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nattraven/pseuds/nattraven)



> A glimpse into Gascon and Reynard's relationship over their series of card games throughout the story. In an attempt to reflect the style of the game's narration, I'm aiming to keep the scenes brief and the dialogue snappy. This one ended up a little long, but it sets the scene for their first encounter! More characters may show up in subsequent card games.

Aedirn. Far from their Queen's salvation, the kingdom was itself strangled by flame and smoke. What little else remained had been torn asunder by panic, unrest, and, if Black Rayla was to be believed, the treacherous claws of the Scoia'tael. 

And yet, Reynard's conviction did not falter. 

He had retreated into the mess tent, sheltered from the ash and blood of the world beyond, and there, he ruminated on their next steps - sketched out plans, proposals, contingencies - and reworked and reforged them over and over again. He drank occasionally, and had a sip of his broth when he remembered, but for now, his ideas were sustenance enough to distract him. There was a certain peace in his solitude, in this time he had to himself. His soldiers gave him a respectful berth, and those who sat at nearby tables kept their voices to a deferential murmur.

That was, of course, until the quiet was shattered. 

Reynard heard wild, raucous laughter outside the tent, though it wasn't until it was joined by telltale howling that he sighed in exasperation. Of course. The night was progressing along far too well for it to not be thus interrupted. 

Scarcely had another minute passed when who but the Duke of Dogs waltzed in - warmly greeting Meve's soldiers (which went unanswered), drumming on passing tables, and pausing only to swipe a mug of ale from a protesting patron. He took a casual look across the choice of tables... and then, to Reynard's great dismay, he sauntered right on over.

Reynard cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"

The other man drew out the opposing chair, letting it drag slowly across the floor with such a screech that it had to be intentional. A smirk was already playing across his lips. "Why, takin' a seat, of course. You look like you could use th' company."

"Looks deceive, then," said Reynard, dryly. "I desire no such thing."

Gascon's answer was to lazily settle into his seat, making the grandest show in the world of slouching back and getting himself comfortable. He had terrible posture, Reynard noted to himself.

"Come now," said Gascon. "Is that any way to welcome your fellow commander?"

"Come again?"

Gascon's smirk remained. "Your fellow commander. I know, I know. You military types dislike associatin' with your subordinates. It's your lucky day, though, for I'm nothin' of th' sort. As leader of my own ragtag troupe of warriors, I daresay we're on equal footing, you and I. So you see, there's no need to feel ill at ease with my company. You may enjoy it without a guilty conscience."

"You don't..." Reynard struggled for a moment, as if there were so many things he wished to contradict in those few sentences that he didn't know where to begin. He settled for something simple, but important: "We are not on equal footing."

"Hmm," said Gascon, looking thoughtful. "You're right. I wasn't goin' to mention it, but I do have more men than you." An irreverent mirth shone from his eyes, and laughter crept into his voice.

Reynard released a sigh he wasn't aware he was suppressing. "Bandits, you mean. Rogues and cutthroats. They hold not a candle to Rivian soldiers."

"I beg to disagree," said Gascon. "Those soldiers of yours did nowt to break their shackles when you were all languishing in th' city cells. Actually, seems to me that you owe these 'rogues' of mine your freedom - not to mention your life. Were it not for me and my lads, you'd still be eating rats and broodin' about injustice." He tilted his head, raising his brows expressively. "Go on, then. Do you deny it be so?"

Reynard paused, despite knowing better. There was legitimacy to Gascon's words, if not to the man himself. At length, he managed, "I will allow that...though your methods are crass and your men have not a shred of honor or dignity to share among them - and neither do I believe that your motivations are altruistic - nonetheless, you and your..." Reynard cycled through a number of different epithets, each more disparaging than the last, "...' _Strays_ ' came through for Her Majesty in her time of need." More quietly, and more so to himself, he added, "At a time when I had failed her. So for that, you do have my gratitude."

Gascon's brows rose high, so high that he was the very image of exaggerated shock. "What's this?" he asked, in a tone that made Reynard instantly regret the concession. "Reynard thankin' me? Reynard payin' me a compliment? At th' world's end, we are. Would've thought it more likely for me to eat my hat."

Reynard eyed the feathered cap in question, as garish as the one it crowned. "No great loss, that would be."

"Oh, 'tis jealousy that provokes those words," laughed Gascon, not looking ruffled in the least. He took a generous swig from his mug, and, after a pause, added, "Wouldn't call it a failure on your part, in any case."

"Hm?"

"What were you supposed to do, gnaw off your chains with your bare teeth?" said Gascon. "Nah, I reckon you were as dutiful as possible under th' circumstances. Real display of loyalty, actually, from what I hear - choosin' to get all valiantly, heroically locked up, instead of joinin' Caldwell and his band of miscreants."

If Reynard didn't know better, he would've suspected that, in some roundabout and backwards fashion, Gascon was attempting a compliment of his own. He opened his mouth, a kneejerk reaction bubbling up inside him to declare that Gascon knew nothing of loyalty - but was stopped by the memory that the so called Duke of Dogs had come back to free his fellow Strays from their prisons. As they had for him. Honor among thieves, he supposed, but it did temper his response. "It did not occur to me to do otherwise."

"Aye," said Gascon, "and that makes you quite strange, as nobles go."

"What is your meaning?"

"Oh, just that they're usually a spineless, selfish lot," said Gascon. "Got no scruples, nor honor, as soon as it's their necks on th' chopping block."

Reynard stiffened, his brows furrowing at once. "Watch your tongue. Her Majesty -"

Gascon only laughed again, shaking his head. "You needn't get riled, friend. For th' sake of argument, at least, we can call Her Most Noble Majesty th' rare exception. But you must admit - what happened to your lovely queen at her court lends a little credence to my theory, don't it? As soon as th' going gets tough, or as soon as you dangle just th' slightest promise of gold or power in front of them - why, th' great houses of Lyria and Rivia would be happy to eat their own, no questions asked."

There was a note of genuine contempt in his voice, though Reynard dismissed it as envy for the more wealthy - no extraordinary outlook for an impoverished brigand. "And you're any different? You and your mutts, who roamed from town to town, robbing and murdering at your whim? Do you truly think you're the paragons of virtue?"

"Nay," said Gascon. His smile had left, but nor did he show remorse. Instead, he leaned forward. "But that's just it, isn't it? We _aren't_ any different. Everyone's out for themselves, in the end. Th' Strays - we just don't make a fuss about hidin' it. Seems an awful waste of effort, after all, to delude ourselves."

Something about the other man's flippancy on this subject left Reynard with a feeling of distaste. He had not forgotten the villages put to fire by the Strays, nor the corpses lying in the open road - the handiwork of the man sitting across from him, casually sipping at his drink. And this was to be his ally? Reynard struggled to rein himself in, for he understood the unfortunate necessity of working together. Exerting more self-control than he would have thought possible, he only said, "Indeed. You'll forgive me if it seems a coward's justification to escape his own conscience."

And with that, Reynard gathered his papers, more than ready to leave the conversation behind.

Gascon sat upright, at this move. "Ah, come on. Didn't mean to chase you off. I hadn't even arrived at my purpose."

"And that is?"

In response, Gascon slipped out a deck of playing cards, and, without missing a beat, began shuffling them with flashy gusto - the cards streamed from left to right, then back, interweaving and settling. "Why, I thought we'd treat ourselves to a good, old-fashioned game of Gwent. What say you?"

Reynard only stared, and decided he would not dignify this with a response. Instead, he simply resumed collecting his belongings.

"Ah, afraid to be bested in a game of intellect," prodded Gascon, a lazy taunt returning to his voice. "Ever the brute, marching your soldiers this way and that, without wit or forethought."

"On the contrary," said Reynard. "It is because I have my wits about me that I must decline."

"Ha!" said Gascon, undeterred. "I see that I can't bait you into a game, but perhaps I can tempt you by other means." He spread his arms wide and held them there as if for dramatic effect. "How about a _wager_?"

"I am hardly interested in taking your blood money, Gascon," said Reynard, in clipped tones, as he rose from his seat.

"Well." Gascon's arms dropped, as did his smile. "Now, you truly have offended me..."

Reynard was about to turn, but he stopped there. "Do you deny that there was no blood involved in accumulating your coin - "

"...because I would never propose such a boring wager as one simply for gold! Why, what do you take me for?"

It was time again for Reynard to sigh. He rubbed his eyes wearily, feeling for all the world like he was losing years off of his life with every moment that this went on. "What is it that you suggest?"

"Betraying your interest, I see," Gascon said, his grin resurfacing. "Not even the great Reynard Odo has fortification enough against curiosity."

"You give yourself far too much credit," said Reynard bleakly. "I merely see that your tongue won't stop wagging until you've proposed your wager. So go on, then - what great stakes have you devised?"

"Only this," said Gascon. He set his deck aside. "If you win, I shall allow you a full afternoon to drill my lads to your heart's content."

This did still Reynard's departure, finally. "What?"

"You heard me. That's what you've wanted all this time, isn't it? Teachin' us to walk?"

"To march," Reynard corrected automatically, "to learn discipline." His eyes, though, narrowed with suspicion, as he smelled a trap. "And if I lose?"

"Then I get an afternoon to drill your men in whatever fashion I should like. 'Tis only fair, no?"

"Absolutely not," said Reynard, almost aghast at the thought of sentencing his Rivian soldiers to so terrible a fate.

Gascon laughed at the look on his face. "Oh ye of little faith. I shan't humiliate them or, gods forbid, teach them to think for themselves. You can even keep watch, if you're so afraid."

"Then what would you have them do?"

Gascon leaned forward, his expression a touch more serious. "I know you got a lot of pride in your men, and rightly so - for th' most part. Convinced to leave their home and country to follow your queen into this godforsaken place. But even you must concede - they're about as quiet as suits of armor clankin' through mounds of silverware. We're not long for this world, if they don't learn a little stealth. I can teach 'em, but you've got to tell 'em to listen first."

Reynard bit back the retorts on the tip of his tongue, and acknowledged, however reluctantly, that the proposal was not not nearly as ridiculous as he might have feared. That wasn't to say it agreed with him. "My men are not bandits. They're soldiers. They have no need to prowl around in the darkness like rats."

"Rats, dogs," drawled Gascon, "call us what you will. I'd rather be alive in th' shadows than die a dazzlin' death in th' sun." 

Many conflicting thoughts crossed Reynard's mind. The prospect of being able to instill some order into half of their fighting force, which was currently wild, chaotic, and downright unruly - it was difficult to pass up. And yet... "It is unseemly, to decide the fate of our training strategy on a game of chance."

"Ah, but 'tis only a game of chance if you've not th' skill," returned Gascon, with that maddeningly smirk. "'Course... if you don't think you stand a chance against me, I understand. Formidable foe, I am. Reckon you don't have th' courage for it." And with that, Gascon rose to his feet as well, and set his finished mug back on the table. "Disappointin', mind - real disappoin'. But so be it."

He had taken one, two steps away by the time Reynard spoke. 

"Hold."

As Gascon turned, Reynard reached into his cloak and retrieved a deck of his own.

The two of them eyed each other from across the table, each with a certain calculated interest.

Finally, Reynard sat down. 

"Deal."


End file.
